


To Catch a (Sick) Thief

by QueenNeehola



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, Innuendo, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15725568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenNeehola/pseuds/QueenNeehola
Summary: His knees hit the ground hard, and the grunt that escapes him is a sound Barawa has never heard him make before.  It’s uncomfortably pained, uncomfortablyhuman, and the thought of the Phantom Thief being anything but an untouchable, otherworldlynuisanceis so alien to the detective that he doesn’t even remember getting closer, doesn’t recall lowering himself to Chat Noir’s level, is unaware that he’s even pressed a hand to the thief’s forehead until he feels the excruciating heat radiating into his palm.A fever.  The great, uncatchable Phantom Thief, Chat Noir has a fever.(or: the barachat sickfic no one asked for.)





	To Catch a (Sick) Thief

**Author's Note:**

> hello, i recently played the detective barawa and the jewel resort incident side-story in GBF and barachat came into my house and murdered me in my sleep. i cannot get enough of awkward beefy detective and the relentlessly flirty twink who isn't even subtle about wanting to kiss him. also i love detective/thief tropes so i am EATING THIS UP. and also i love sickfic. i'm sorry.

It’s strange.  It’s definitely strange.  Barawa has been tailing Chat Noir for a week after a new lead, and unless he’s mistaken, which he rarely is, he’s been getting _closer_.  That in itself is unusual, given the Phantom Thief’s infuriating ability to always be one step ahead, leaving mocking messages in his wake; but it’s the fact that there are _clues_ , too, helping Barawa and Sarya close the gap: witnesses, dropped items, _mistakes_ – and Chat Noir doesn’t usually make mistakes.

“I’m feeling good about this, Sarya!” Barawa announces, his booming laugh echoing around the flimsy walls of the inn they had booked themselves into.  “Another day or two and I’ll finally have him, I’m sure!”

“It could be a trap, though, Detective,” Sarya reminds him, her voice several decibels quieter than Barawa’s.  She follows him dutifully up the stairs, but slowly – it had been a long day.  “He could be,” she pauses to yawn, “lulling you into a false sense of security.”

Barawa pauses at the landing, a hand on his chin, thoughtful.  “You may be right,” he concurs, but then he notices the way Sarya is swaying on her feet, her eyes drooping behind her glasses.  “But we can deduce more tomorrow, after a good night’s rest!”

He pushes her towards her room, down the hall from his, and she goes gratefully, waving over her shoulder as she closes the door behind her.

 

When Barawa enters his own room, the smell hits him immediately – cloyingly sweet and choking, and familiar.  Sure enough, a quick sweep of his eyes over the furniture reveals a new, but just as familiar, addition – a calling card from Chat Noir, laid carelessly atop his hastily made bed.

Barawa frowns, and looks over the room once more, as though Chat Noir could still be hiding within, before picking the card up and turning it over to read the message.  As usual, it’s written in the Phantom Thief’s perfect cursive:

_My dearest Great Detective,_

_While I always appreciate any and all attention from you, I’m afraid I am currently without the time for our usual games of cat and mouse.  It breaks my heart, but I must unfortunately ask you to halt your pursuit of me for the time being.  Worry not, for I am not asking for much time, and I shall surely return to you before long.  Do try not to miss me too much in the meantime._

_Yours mischievously,_

_Chat Noir_

It takes Barawa a moment to penetrate Chat Noir’s pointlessly flowery prose and figure out the heart of the message, but when he does, his frown deepens.  Chat Noir is…asking him to lay off chasing him for a while?  Even with all the ridiculous stunts the Phantom Thief has pulled in the past, this one makes the least sense, even as Barawa reads the note a second time, and then a third.  It’s far too forward to be a trick, Barawa thinks…or is it?  Perhaps it’s that, what did Sarya call it, reverse psychology?  It’s not a trick, but it _is_ a trick?  Or…it seems like a trick, but actually it’s _not_?  Barawa clutches his head—he’s too tired for this.  Though he’s not sure he’ll understand in the morning, either.

 

Suddenly, there’s a noise from the balcony, and Barawa is wide awake and alert once more.  Could it be Chat Noir himself, still on the scene of the crime?  Or no, not crime, since as far as Barawa’s aware, he hasn’t actually done anything illegal yet—or wait, scratch that; he’s pretty sure even the act of leaving the calling card in Barawa’s room counts as breaking and entering.

Semantics aside, Barawa bursts out onto the balcony, the doors rattling on their hinges in his haste.  The balcony is dark, and empty, and Barawa almost deflates, until he remembers that a detective should always look closer, and so he does.  He looks over the edge of the balcony—and sees the flutter of something, perhaps a _cape_ , disappearing around a corner below.

So it _was_ Chat Noir!  Well, maybe.  Either way, before he even lets himself think about it, Barawa vaults over the balcony railing and leaps to the ground.  He regrets it when he lands – his poor ankles – but he doesn’t let himself think about that, either, and just takes off running after (probably) the Phantom Thief.

* * *

He's right, it _is_ Chat Noir, he discovers, rounding the first corner and finding that, to his surprise, the Phantom Thief isn’t as far ahead as Barawa assumed he’d be.  The chase continues, back and forth and through more cramped alleyways, but with every new turn Barawa thinks—is _sure_ , in fact—that he’s catching up.  He’s not slow by any stretch of the imagination, but Chat Noir is more slender, more flexible, and usually faster, and in all their previous pursuits by now he’d have pulled some stunt and disappeared in a puff of smoke and petals, somehow.  But this time, Barawa is so close he can almost _smell_ the dastard.  (He doesn’t smell half bad.)

On a straight stretch of street, Chat Noir actually _stumbles_ (over what Barawa doesn’t know, doesn’t see) but rights himself and darts down another alley.  Barawa is only a few seconds behind, turns fast after him—and has to slam on the brakes to stop himself from barrelling straight into him.

Chat Noir is…is _stopped_ , paused, _no longer running_ , just bracing himself against the wall with a hand and taking deep, gulping breaths.  Even in the wan moonlight, Barawa can see the sheen of sweat on his face, and that’s… _weird_.  Chat Noir doesn’t just _get_ tired.  Barawa can’t even think to say anything, so bizarre is the scene, but he doesn’t have to.

“My apologies, Detective,” Chat Noir is saying, and even his voice, normally so maddeningly lilting, sounds heavy, exhausted.  “It’s just that you’ve been chasing me so—so relentlessly for the past week, I just need a moment to, to compose myself…”

He keeps yammering, but Barawa tunes it out, his cogs still whirring furiously to try and figure out this new ruse, the meaning behind it—until Chat Noir _collapses_.

His knees hit the ground hard, and the grunt that escapes him is a sound Barawa has never heard him make before.  It’s uncomfortably pained, uncomfortably _human_ , and the thought of the Phantom Thief being anything but an untouchable, otherworldly _nuisance_ is so alien to the detective that he doesn’t even remember getting closer, doesn’t recall lowering himself to Chat Noir’s level, is unaware that he’s even pressed a hand to the thief’s forehead until he feels the excruciating heat radiating into his palm.

A fever.  The great, uncatchable Phantom Thief, Chat Noir has a fever.

 

His arms are trembling as he makes an attempt to push Barawa’s hand away, and the touch is so weak that Barawa lets his hand drop out of shock more than any real force on Chat Noir’s part.

“Taking advantage of me already?” Chat Noir teases.  “You certainly don’t waste any time.”

For once, Barawa doesn’t take the bait.  “You shouldn’t be galavanting around in this condition,” he says, and his chiding voice is a deep, unusually serious rumble that surprises even himself.

“In my defence, dear Detective, I _was_ trying to get away from you.  I even asked you, very politely, to stop chasing me.”  Barawa can’t argue with that.  He’s about to say that he thought it was just another of Chat Noir’s ploys, but it sounds childish even in his head, and Chat Noir continues anyway before he can speak, “But you really don’t give up.  And now you have the perfect opportunity to apprehend me, when I’m practically in your lap.”

Barawa takes a few moments, and eventually comes up with a good response.  “ _The thrill is in the chase_ …or so they say,” he finishes quickly at Chat Noir’s amused expression, and clears his throat.  “A-Anyway, you should be in bed, being looked after, and not in a cell, right now.”

The response is immediate.  “Are you offering to _take me to bed_ and _look after me_ , Detective?”  Even beneath the layer of fatigue, Chat Noir’s voice is impish, sugar-coated, and Barawa really should have expected it, but his face flares into a heat to rival Chat Noir’s fever anyway.

Instead of replying – he can’t think of a decent retort anyway, but he hopes it comes off as dignified silence – Barawa just stands, scooping Chat Noir with him so that the Phantom Thief sits, an awkwardly light bundle of limbs and cape, in his arms.

“Looks like you caught me, after all,” Chat Noir quips, his arms sliding around Barawa’s neck too easily, and Barawa thinks it might be the sickness, but he seems bolder than normal with his intimations.  “Tongues will surely wag.”  Barawa thinks it _must_ be the sickness that has Chat Noir pressing flush, clinging, sweltering, against the expanse of his chest.

Barawa resolutely looks ahead and starts walking.  Dignified silence.

* * *

The idea to take Chat Noir, the infamous Phantom Thief, the _person he’s_ _supposed to be hunting down_ , back to the inn he’s staying at might not be one of Barawa’s best, but it’s all he has.  He knows Chat Noir needs rest, and he knows that there is a bed in his room, and—he thinks of asking Chat Noir, uncharacteristically silent now, if he has his own room, anywhere in the town, and he looks down.

And there’s the reason for the silence, because Chat Noir has dozed off, leaning comfortable and defenceless into Barawa, monocle skew-whiff and top hat discarded to balance in his lap instead.  His face is relaxed, mouth hanging open as he breathes gently, and Barawa looks long enough that he almost walks into a lamppost.

 

Thankfully, the inn’s front desk is unoccupied when Barawa returns, just a bell sitting front and centre with an accompanying sign that reads _Ring For Assistance_.  Also thankfully (and perhaps stupidly) Barawa hadn’t locked his room door when he’d returned to it the first time, as exiting via a drop from the balcony and leaving the key on the dresser means he’d have locked himself out, and then he _would_ have had to ring for assistance, with an armful of feverish Phantom Thief, and _that_ would have been an awkward conversation to have with the proprietor.

But there’s no use dwelling on what-ifs, Barawa thinks, and he gently lays Chat Noir down on the bed.  He stirs at the movement and blinks awake, sitting up slowly and gathering his bearings.  Barawa can almost see the moment the penny drops, and the smirk that creeps onto Chat Noir’s lips, while weary, is still vexing.

“Waking up in your bed, Detective?” he says.  “I must still be dreaming.”

Barawa scoffs, and hopes it sounds unaffected, and not embarrassed, and he turns away, rummaging in his bag.  He produces medicinal tablets – now he’s thankful that Sarya always makes him carry some since he came down with a cold on a job that one time – and his water canteen, and hands both to Chat Noir, who thankfully only opens his mouth to ingest them.  He drinks greedily, Barawa notices, and the detective is a little surprised he hasn’t made remark about drinking from the same container, or indirect kisses, or some other indecent thing—and then Barawa realises just what he’s thinking about, and silently chastises himself.

 

Chat Noir hands the canteen back, then Barawa is over him, large hands unpinning his cape from his collar and putting it off to the side.

“Oh, aren’t we moving a little too fast?” Chat Noir says, and if there’s a quiver in his voice, it’s just the illness, Barawa reminds himself.

“You should take some layers off.  Cool down.  I-It’s logical,” Barawa says in return, and if there’s a quiver in _his_ voice (and there is), there’s a logical reason for that, too.  And he’ll definitely figure out what it is soon.

Off come Chat Noir’s gloves, and boots, and ridiculous monocle, and as Barawa unbuttons his jacket, Chat Noir lies back and lets him, pliant and unresisting and atypically quiet.  Barawa tries his best to avoid his sleepy, heavy-lidded gaze, but even if he can’t see it, he feels it, as warm as the Phantom Thief’s fevered skin.

Eventually, Barawa decides Chat Noir is sufficiently undressed (but still dressed enough as to be decent, of course), and he steps back, and he can see the tiredness settling into Chat Noir’s slim frame with the way he sinks brazenly into the cheap pillows.

“Sleep,” Barawa says, as if it wasn’t obvious.

“Stay,” Chat Noir answers, as if that wasn’t obvious either.  Barawa makes to settle into the chair in front of the dresser, and Chat Noir speaks again, voice a husky, drowsy whisper.  “Closer.”

Barawa eyes him suspiciously.  His arm is outstretched, lazily, towards the detective.  “This better not be some sort of trick, you dastard.”

Chat Noir almost laughs, but it seems like too much effort.  “Not this time,” he assures.  “Just a selfish request.”

So Barawa pulls the chair closer, to the side of the bed, and sits.  The wood creaks as he tries to get comfortable – it’s not really the right build for a draph man – and by the time he’s found the least awkward position he’s able to manage, Chat Noir is already asleep.

Eventually, Barawa succumbs to sleep too, slouched in his tiny chair, his head and arms lolling.  He thinks at one point, he scratches the surface of wakefulness enough to feel fingers gripping his shirt sleeve – but it’s probably just a dream.

* * *

In the morning, the balcony door is open, the bed is made, Barawa’s back is killing him, and Chat Noir is gone.  He’s not sure what he expected, but part of him wishes he’d woken up before the Phantom Thief, long enough to catch one last glimpse of his unguarded, unconscious expression.  And he doesn’t know _where_ that thought came from, and he stubbornly, frantically quashes it, and turns instead to the familiar scent of Chat Noir’s Barawa-specific perfume, and the brand new calling card sitting daintily on the dresser.

 

_To my beloved Great Detective,_

_I always knew you were a gentleman beyond compare, but you truly proved yourself as such last night.  Never in my life have I felt so cherished, so gently held and treated, and it was a night I shall not soon forget.  I left your company this morning with a heavy heart, so adorable was your sleeping face, but I thought it better to keep up professional appearances, no matter how close we may have become._

_I must extend my sincerest gratitude for your care towards me._

_I just hope that, in future, you may think of taking me to dinner before you manhandle me into bed once more._

_Yours (always) mischievously,_

_Chat Noir_

Barawa feels his brain flatlining.  He reads the note again, his eyes focusing, unbidden, on the words _gently held_ and _adorable_ and _manhandle_ and _always_.  It sounds like—maybe he’s wrong, but—doesn’t it?—and it’s _intentional_ , he knows it—either that, or he’s grown too used to the dastard’s inappropriate use of language, that—

He catches sight of himself in the dresser’s mirror, and his face is pink.

There’s a hammering at the door, and he jumps.

“Detective!” Sarya’s voice floats easily through the thin wood.  “Detective, are you up?  I just had a thought about the case, and I wanted to—”

Barawa hastily shoves the calling card into a pocket, and tries to wave away the lingering scent of perfume, wills the heat out of his cheeks.  Whatever the message meant, whatever the _previous night_ meant, whatever Chat Noir’s easy closeness and sleepy, comfortable teasing and the ghost of a touch on Barawa’s arm in the night meant—Sarya could _never_ find out.


End file.
